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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25971985">Sono Qui</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth'>Mottlemoth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Cuddling, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings, First Meetings, Fluff and Softness, Historical, Immortal Husbands, Language Barrier, M/M, Medieval, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, The Crusades, True Love, Ye Olde Bed Sharing, playfulness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:15:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25971985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On the battlefield outside Jerusaleum, two enemies form a bond which changes everything. In the days that follow, as Nicolò and Yusuf attempt to make sense of their new situation, they discover just how close two human beings can become.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>608</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Tie That Binds Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't allow translations. Give me a shout if you ever find this posted somewhere other than AO3. (I hate adding these notes to my fics, but I've had things stolen way too many times. Thanks for understanding.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>I die of love for you, but keep this secret:<br/>
The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope.</p><p>Abū Nuwās, <em> I die of love for him, </em> transl. by Victor Monteil<br/>
(8th - 9th century CE)</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He cuts through men like wheat—six of them, seven. Eight struck down. He moves with the flow and ability of a shadow, at such a speed that he's killing them mid-turn. Their gazes barely register his dark grey shape through the blur of sand and screams before the curve of his blade swipes across their throats, drives between their ribs, and he does not wait to watch them fall. He knows they are dead. Each man is left to drop to the sand, marionettes with the strings sliced through, nothing to him now. His focus is on the living, not the dead. </p><p>And none of them are living long.</p><p>On a battlefield of thousands, as the horses plunge and scream and bloodied men lurch through the dust, struggling to determine friend from foe, the Saracen is all Nicolò sees.</p><p><em> Fermatelo! </em> he thinks several times, hacking his way through opponents—<em>someone stop him, kill that man!—</em>twice, he screams it. No one hears. They're all fighting towards the broken stone walls of the city, the prize to which God himself has guided them. Jerusalem is within their grasp.</p><p>But if no one intervenes, the Saracen and his scimitar will make sure none of them step foot inside.</p><p><em>Allora lo farò io. </em> Nicolò wrenches his sword from the shoulder of his opponent, kicks the man backwards into the sand, and sloughs the blood from his own face with a hand. <em> Then I will do it. </em>He works his way closer, battling two men who try to stop him, then dodging from the path of a horse which trails its dead rider from the saddle like a split sack. He waits until the Saracen has just dispatched a victim and turned on another, then grits his teeth and strikes to kill.</p><p>The swing of his sword comes close. A moment's extra speed, and he'd have detached the man's head from his shoulders. The Saracen's twist brings his scimitar up just enough to catch the blade, deflecting its path to one side. Instead of slashing wildly onwards, trying to catch the man with a desperate second strike, Nicolò does what countless others before him have failed to do: he pre-empts the counter-attack. Their weapons clash in a cross above their heads. The second cross forms between their bellies with a clang, then a third attempt beneath Nicolò's arm. The Saracen takes a swift step back. It saves him from the arc of Nicolò's sword by an inch. Nicolò presses forwards; the Saracen parries his every sweep, evades his every thrust. His feet are faster on the sand, but not fast enough to launch his own attack.</p><p>It angers him. </p><p>Nicolò spots the very moment that the Saracen understands he has now encountered a problem. His black eyes flash with frustration between his helmet and the blue-grey cloth wound across his mouth, his grasp tightening on the hilt of his scimitar. He surges forwards, whirling towards Nicolò with enough force to kick the sand beneath his feet into the air. </p><p>Nicolò concentrates on backing away through the cloud, keeping his eyes on the twists and hints of the advancing Saracen's body. He lets his sword bring itself into each swipe of the scimitar. It feels as instinctive as breathing, as fleet and clean as a folk dance. They clash over and over, steel ringing against steel, and it flashes wildly through Nicolò's mind that his boyhood tutors would have assigned the two of them to each other for sword practice. They're well-matched. The Saracen moves in a way that Nicolò's instincts understand—and yet every lethal blow he tries to land meets the scimitar edge. He's now lived ten times longer than any of the Saracen's other opponents. The Saracen has outlived all of Nicolò's, too.</p><p>Raging, Nicolò screws all his strength into his arms and tries a wilder, harder swing. Though the Saracen evades it, he has to sacrifice his footing to get out of the way. He stumbles back a single step.</p><p>It is Nicolò's one chance.</p><p>As he lunges forwards, aiming the point of his sword into the man's heart, the Saracen's scimitar flashes. He doesn't move to deflect the strike. He attacks.</p><p>As perfectly as they blocked each other, they kill each other. It happens in one smooth and simple movement: Nicolò's sword pierces skin, drives through muscle and embeds into flesh; metal digs upwards through his belly, so sharp and fast that he gasps. His hand releases his sword with shock. Strings cut, he slumps. </p><p>The Saracen sags forwards into him.</p><p>The last few seconds of Nicolò di Genova's life are spent on the only thoughts he can reach. </p><p><em> I am dying, </em>he realises, as his knees hit the sand. He tries to grip onto something, wanting to stay here in this life that he's barely begun to live. Blood pours into his clothes. As his searching fingers find unfamiliar fabric, he holds onto it, bunching it tightly in his hand. </p><p>He can feel the Saracen panting out his last. His ragged breaths slow against Nicolò's neck, his strength failing.</p><p>
  <em> And you are dying.  </em>
</p><p>They sink sideways onto the sand together, broken dolls. Men fight on around them, still raging, storming on towards Jerusalem.</p><p>Nicolò's vision begins to fade.</p><p><em> "Perdonami," </em> he mumbles, as a mangonel unloads another chunk of stone into the city walls. The ground beneath them shakes. <em> "Mi dispiace." </em></p><p>The Saracen murmurs indistinctly against his neck.</p><p>Death lays itself across them like a blanket.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It hurts to die.</p><p><em> Please, </em> Yusuf thinks, burning with the pain. The skin on his cheek blisters against the hot sand. <em> Just let it end. Let me die. </em>He tries to shift to ease the agony a little, surprised he even has the strength to do so. He'd thought that he was blacking out, and yet here he is, somehow still breathing.</p><p>It shouldn't be taking this long.</p><p>Gritting his teeth, he reaches down to take hold of the sword that the <em> afranj </em> has driven through his heart. It seems like touching it will help. If he can make his body understand that they are done for, and it is over, then perhaps his mind will give way too.</p><p>His fingertips encounter the damaged leather plates of his armour, then the protective cotton padding underneath—the hole pierced through both, the shredded silk of his kaftan—then skin, sticky with sweat and grime.</p><p>There is no sword.</p><p>Yusuf spreads his palm, trying to find it. As his fingers meet only his bare chest, whole and intact, he wrenches his head up from the sand and looks down, panting in alarm.</p><p>The Frank's sword lies beside him on the dark red sand. Next to it is Yusuf's scimitar, the metal blades resting quietly together. As Yusuf stares at the two weapons, trying to make sense of what his eyes promise him is true, he realises that all of the people around him are dead. Corpses litter the ground in every direction. The dead go on for miles, more men than he remembers falling, but the armies and the fighters are gone. Smoke pours from the city in the distance, her walls caved in and broken.</p><p>The vast bloodstain in which he lies has baked dry beneath the sun.</p><p>Before he can even draw breath, a ragged cough and a whimper snap Yusuf's head around.</p><p>The Frank who stabbed him stirs, gasping into the sand.</p><p><em> Hadha mustahil. </em> Yusuf killed him. He drove the blade straight up into his stomach. He remembers the look of shock, the green eyes flashing wide. He remembers how it feels to have steel pierce its way through his chest. <em> This is impossible. </em></p><p>He watches, open-mouthed, as the Frank does exactly what he did, searching between his body and the sand for the blade that killed him. Unable to find it, his body stiffens. He looks up in confusion towards Yusuf.</p><p>Their eyes meet, deepest black on olive green.</p><p>The Frank's expression opens. His lips part, and for what feels like an eternity they simply stare at each other.</p><p><em> I killed you, </em> Yusuf thinks. <em> You're dead.  </em></p><p>The Frank searches Yusuf's face. He glances down towards Yusuf's chest, swallows and breathes something in his own language, something which possibly means <em> you're dead. </em></p><p>He then reaches a panicked hand towards his sword.</p><p>Yusuf has time to grab either his helmet or his weapon. He opts for the scimitar, staggers to his feet and backs away across the sand, readying himself just in time for the first swing. He deflects it with a clash of steel and a grunt. The Frank shouts something at him in a rage, grits his teeth, and charges again.</p><p>They fight amongst the dead, stumbling and screaming at each other until the sweat nearly blinds Yusuf. Whatever hallucination had him briefly in its grasp has ended. This is extremely real. At last, the Frank attempts a complicated parry that he's too exhausted to manage, catches his ankle on a fallen shield and trips backwards, dumping himself into the sand.</p><p>He <em> definitely </em> dies this time. </p><p>Yusuf retreats to a safe distance and waits, watching uncomfortably until the Frank stops choking up blood. His wide green eyes stare directly into the sun, unblinking. To be certain, Yusuf retrieves a nearby spear, spins it in one hand and sinks it through the Frank's chest with such force that it pins him to the sand. The Frank doesn't twitch. He doesn't blink.</p><p>He is dead.</p><p>Yusuf sits down on the sand some short distance away, puts his head into his hands and tries to think, bracing his fingertips against his scalp.</p><p>Wrapped up in his thoughts, he doesn't notice the careful footsteps closing in.</p><p>One moment, he's reassuring himself that God has willed him to have these strange imaginings. It's part of a plan he doesn't yet understand. The next, the blade of a sword punctures through the front of his right shoulder, skewering him from behind in a single stroke.</p><p>Yusuf howls. His muscles seize; agony blisters through his blood. A leather boot braces in the middle of his back, using him as leverage to yank free the sword. The metal grates roughly against his bones as it slides. </p><p>Soundless with pain, shocked, Yusuf slumps forwards onto the sand. </p><p>There he shudders, panting in silence, as blood pours from the wound. He tries to cradle it with his hand. </p><p>After a few moments, something flat, hard and pointed nudges beneath his chin, pressing into the dark curls of his beard. He lifts his face wearily, too blinded with pain to disobey, and finds himself facing the Frank along the length of his bloodied sword.</p><p><em> My blood, </em>Yusuf thinks, his heart pounding.</p><p>The Frank stares down at him. His green eyes flash as he pants. The expression he wears is one that Yusuf has never seen before on a human face, anger, terror and disbelief tightening his young features, warring for dominance beneath the surface. He's pale beneath his coating of blood and dirt. Across his chest, a wide crimson stain blurs the cross of Christ into the grubby white of his tabard. Yusuf doesn't need to see it to know there's an identical stain across his back. </p><p>They stare at each other in silence, eyes locked, their heavy breathing the only sound.</p><p>The Frank says something in his language, something that makes his voice shake. It sounds like an accusation. </p><p>Yusuf draws a weary breath. "I don't understand you, <em> afranj." </em></p><p>The Frank's sword drifts from Yusuf's chin to his shoulder, grazing across the wound he just made—a wound which Yusuf now realises should hurt a great deal more than it does. He looks down, watching without breath as the point of the sword lifts his armour, pushing the torn fabric aside.</p><p>The bleeding has already stopped. What there is has dried, and the wound is beginning to close around its edges, skin knitting and weaving, healing before their very eyes.</p><p><em> "Madonna mia," </em> the Frank breathes, the sword tip shaking. </p><p>Yusuf locks his jaw. <em> Subhanallah. </em> He tries to think, though his heart is now hammering against his ribs, drowning out his thoughts like rushing water. The pain fades more and more with every breath. <em> Mash Allah. What God has willed.  </em></p><p>The sword suddenly tenses. The Frank's grip tightens, and Yusuf has only half a second to roll himself sideways out of the way. He escapes the wild swing by an inch; the sword plants into the bloodied sand. Yusuf scrabbles wildly for his scimitar, whirls it over his head and meets the second raging blow from above.</p><p>Battle resumes.</p><p>They duel like warring leopards across the sand, snarling and spitting, matching each other strike for strike with a ferocity far beyond what came before. The wounds heal within moments, more completely than if they'd been nursed for many weeks in a hospital bed. Though the Frank is stronger, Yusuf is faster—and God has commanded that they shall fight.</p><p>They kill each other for the second time in the broken wreckage of a mangonel. Yusuf guts the Frank, almost cutting him in two. <em> There'll be no healing from that, </em> he thinks, dropping his scimitar in exhaustion. As the Frank slumps, he drags an arm around Yusuf's neck and gets a hand into his hair. The dagger flashes across Yusuf's throat, quick and sharp; his breath breaks. They collapse against each other to die, and bleed out together in a heap.</p><p>Yusuf comes round to find the Frank shifting beneath him, coughing in pain and cradling his stomach. </p><p>For a short time they brawl, wrestling on the ground and throwing weary punches while trying to get their hands around each other's necks. The little Frank is tenacious. He's far tougher than he looks, and his short streams of gasped and angry cursing suggest someone who isn't quite used to it. This is clearly the son of some great and noble house—<em>just like me, </em> flashes through the back of Yusuf's mind. The Frank's life has been a story of fine wines, learned education and linen bedsheets, and now he's been sent forth to recover the Holy City from the people they call infidels.</p><p>Throttling him doesn't work. Trying to crush his skull with the back of a shield doesn't work either. They take up weapons again, circling each other across the sand and clashing until the heat overcomes them both. They sink to the ground, too broken and exhausted to continue, and die there underneath the sun.</p><p>They awaken as darkness is falling, and continue.</p><p>Through the long night they battle, neither able to keep the other dead. They cover many miles across the hills, fighting and chasing, falling and dying, only for life to return minutes later. Their armour becomes swiftly so damaged and so tattered that it simply drops from their shoulders. They let it fall, and keep on fighting. Yusuf pursues the man with a hatred unlike anything he has ever experienced, hunting him back and forth between life and death and yet again into life, and Jerusalem has soon vanished beneath the horizon. Only the sea lies ahead.</p><p>But Jerusalem no longer seems to matter.</p><p>The holy war is not in the city. It is here, two adversaries appointed to battle before God and end this once and for all. If men are dying in Jerusalem, then heaven has decreed it will be so. </p><p>They reach the sea just as the sun begins to rise. They fight until they drown together, overpowered by the waves, then awaken wet and gasping on the shore. They struggle back to each other and grapple, panting, spitting blood and saltwater. Yusuf wrestles the Frank's dagger from its sheath and stabs him with it; the man yelps, his face twists with pain. He tries to writhe free from the blade as he whimpers. Exhausted, Yusuf lets go and rolls off him to one side, then lies on his back in the lapping waves, taking a moment just to breathe as he waits for the Frank to die. The morning sun is melting across the sea as it rises, pouring pink and peach and gold across the waves. It is beautiful.</p><p>With a final surge of strength, the Frank pursues him. He grabs hold of Yusuf, cursing—then he smashes Yusuf's head upon a rock.</p><p>As Yusuf dies this time, his skull in pieces and his blood pouring out into the sea, he's aware that he allowed it.</p><p>They wake together in a heap, their sodden clothing cold and clinging to their skin. As Yusuf drags air once more into his crippled lungs, the man sprawled on top of him simply breathes as well. They each know the other is awake; they know they must get up and fight. </p><p>But for just one quiet minute, they breathe.</p><p>After what feels like an eternity, Yusuf remembers himself. God's will doesn't wait; this war must reach its end, and there is only one way for it to happen. He shifts with an exhausted grunt, throwing the Frank off him and onto his back into the wet sand, then goes to grab hold of his wrists. The Frank tries to fight him away. He begs something that Yusuf ignores. As Yusuf pins him open against the sand, he begs it louder and grips onto Yusuf's hands, panting, staring up into his eyes.</p><p>Yusuf looks back down at him, overwhelmed for a moment by that peaceful shade of blue-grey-green. Not many things in the world are that colour. He never thought he'd see it in a pair of eyes.</p><p>The Frank holds onto him, nervously searching his face in return.</p><p>"Mash Allah," he tries. He mangles it, but the words are clear. </p><p>Rage wells in the back of Yusuf's throat like fire, black and choking in an instant. <em> How dare you. </em>He almost spits at the man and strangles him, for daring to think he has any right to invoke that name, to utter those words. </p><p><em> "Dio lo vuole," </em> the Frank pants before he can strike, gripping Yusuf harder. <em> "Noi viviamo. Tu e io insieme. È la decisione di Dio." </em></p><p>The sea has washed the blood and the dirt from his face. He seems so young without it.</p><p><em> "Per favore," </em> he says, and Yusuf realises that tears are forming in his tired green eyes. The man's grasp shifts, loosening around Yusuf's hands. He weaves their fingers together instead; he is shaking. "Mash Allah," he says again.</p><p>
  <em> What God has willed. </em>
</p><p>Yusuf doesn't speak. He can't. He looks down at the man he has pinned open against the sand—this enemy, this invader—and he watches him breathe. The light of the rising sun falls softly on the man's face, tightening his pupils, though he doesn't look away from Yusuf's face. He simply waits.</p><p>The whole world could be empty at this moment. Everything Yusuf knew seems suddenly faraway. God has reached into his life and in a minute changed everything, and all that Yusuf now knows is what he can see right before him: a man that God has chosen to restore, over and over. Every wound Yusuf made upon his body, God has gently blurred away.</p><p>The green-eyed man swallows, nervous. The muscles in his throat contract.</p><p>"Nicolò," he says, and at first Yusuf thinks that he won't understand. The man then draws a deep breath, moving Yusuf's hand to his chest and holding it there. "Nicolò di Genova."</p><p>Yusuf can't look away from his eyes.</p><p>They are beautiful.</p><p>"Yusuf," he says, more gruffly than he means. His heart seems to have stopped. At last, the man has killed him. "Al-Kaysani."</p><p>Nicolò's expression softens with understanding.</p><p>"Yusuf," he murmurs, and something in Yusuf's bones and his blood aches to hear him say it another thousand times. He can't rest until he hears it again. A little stream of unfamiliar language follows from Nicolò's mouth, some offer or reassurance that Yusuf doesn't understand.</p><p>There is only one response he can give.</p><p>"Nicolò," he says, overcome.</p><p>Nicolò's gentle hold tightens around his hand, still holding it safe against his chest. He smiles, just a little—the tiniest half-movement of his mouth. It's barely there.</p><p>A thousand years from now, Yusuf's heart will still rupture at the sight of that smile.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Scarce Mortal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Dear Friend, since thou hast passed the whole<br/>Of one sweet night till dawn with me, <br/>I were scarce mortal, could I spend <br/>Another hour apart from thee.</p><p>Saadi Shirazi, <em> Gulistân, </em> transl. by Von Kupfeer <em> <br/></em>(12th - 13th century CE)</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The inn is dark and crowded, packed with travellers and pilgrims. Though many different tongues are being spoken, all of them discuss Jerusalem. It's said the walls now lie in ruins; the blood of innocents ran through the streets to the height of a man's ankle. Even the women and children were put to the sword.</p><p>Nicolò stays close to Yusuf's side, keeping his eyes low and his face turned away from the candlelight. They left what remained of their armour by the sea, then bought new clothes from a peddler on the road, but he can still sense some shadow of the cross stitched in red upon his shoulder. Short hours ago, it was his shield and a mark of honour.</p><p>Things feel rather different now.</p><p>Yusuf speaks quietly and discreetly with the innkeeper behind the bar. A few coins are exchanged and a handshake, then the innkeeper shows them away from the noise and the clamour, up a narrow flight of creaking wooden steps and into a private back room. As Yusuf discusses something further with the man, Nicolò hovers uncertainly to one side, trying not to notice the one straw mattress in the corner.</p><p>The conversation leads to food and drink being brought—thin flatbreads with tamarisk seeds, wooden bowls  of hot stew and roasted fish, steaming cups of some deep green tea. Yusuf guides Nicolò to sit at the corner table, murmuring to him, and puts the food right into his hands. He talks, even though he must know that Nicolò can't understand him, and his voice is soft and encouraging. His gaze holds Nicolò gently in the candlelight; he doesn't start eating until he's seen Nicolò finish half the bowl.</p><p>Nicolò, nervous, stays quiet rather than talks. He doesn't want to sully this quiet shelter with his own language. He murmurs an apologetic <em> grazie </em> whenever Yusuf gives him things, then fruitlessly tries <em> abbastanza, grazie, </em>when he's finished, but is wheedled into eating one more flatbread. His tentative smiles seem to communicate enough gratitude and reassurance for Yusuf. The man's deep black eyes light up whenever he does; their darkness only makes his happiness seem more bright.</p><p>As they're finishing, a young woman brings a jug of hot water up to the room, along with a deep ceramic bowl and two towels. Yusuf thanks her as she lays them out, then seems to assure her they'll need nothing else for the night. She murmurs her understanding with a nod of her head, backs from the room and closes the door.</p><p>Yusuf makes sure Nicolò has tea—fills his cup for him, gently insists. He says something that looks a lot like <em> you sit there now. </em>Nicolò ascents with a cautious smile. Settling a little more comfortably into his seat, he brings the hot cup of tea to his chest and holds it there.</p><p>Reassured, Yusuf smiles. He says something else, something that sounds pleased. He turns his attention to the hot water with one last glance at Nicolò, as if making sure he's definitely alright.</p><p>Nicolò tries not to watch as he washes. </p><p>He's heard that the people here like to keep clean. They have to wash before they can pray, he's been told. It's an insult to their god if they don't. Some of the men who accompanied Nicolò from Genoa allow months to go by without bathing. They laugh uproariously at the idea of the perfumed Saracens in their coloured silks, softening their beards with rose oil, washing their hands before they eat.</p><p>But as Yusuf works carefully and peacefully to clean himself, Nicolò's heart takes up a gentle drumming. </p><p><em> What's the harm in it? </em> he thinks. <em> To be clean before God.  </em></p><p>If anything, it seems a very basic courtesy. </p><p>Nicolò drinks his tea in silence, keeping his eyes to himself, and tries not to disturb the gentle quiet that has fallen over the room.</p><p>When Yusuf is done, slipping his shirt back over his head, he turns to Nicolò and gently taps the jug. A verbal offer is made—<em> do you want to? </em>—and Nicolò's chest aches a little at the thought of getting the salt and blood and sand off his skin. He gives a quiet nod, gets up, and they trade places for him to wash.</p><p>Yusuf has left him most of the clean water.</p><p>Nicolò makes sure to use no more than he needs. He takes Yusuf's lead to keep the clean water fresh, pouring it out carefully onto the cloth and then wringing the cloth into the bowl. He feels safe enough to strip off his undershirt, washing beneath his arms and across his chest. As he does, he's unable to forget all the wounds he should have. The memories are so vivid—how it feels to be gutted down the middle, how it feels to die around a curved steel blade—and yet his body is as unmarked and undamaged as the day he was born. Though Yusuf took his life today, countless times, he still has it.</p><p>Nicolò pushes the thoughts from his mind as well as he can, getting on with washing. Now and then, he steals small and silent glances across the room for reassurance. </p><p>His new friend is simply resting at the table, watching the candles flutter, drinking tea.</p><p>
  <em> Did I dream it? </em>
</p><p>It's hard to think what else could have convinced him to quietly follow a Saracen to a roadside inn miles from anywhere, then take shelter with him there, smile at him, eat and drink with him. If Nicolò concentrates, he can still feel the wet sand against his back and the grip of Yusuf's hands around his wrists. He can still see the change in Yusuf's face as understanding comes. The memories are now burned into Nicolò's mind forever; the things that they show him are real.</p><p>And though he can't explain it, his very bones seem to believe that in this moment, they are exactly where they are meant to be. His eyes can see Yusuf, and so they feel at peace.</p><p>God has spoken. </p><p>Perhaps further instructions will come in time, and the new shape of things as ordained by heaven will grow more clear.</p><p>But for now, it is to be so: they have reached each other, and in spite of their very best efforts, they are alive.</p><p>The rest will have to wait until the morning.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Once Nicolò has tried to hide three shivering yawns, Yusuf intervenes. </p><p>"Come on," he says, amused, and rises from his seat. Nicolò's eyes lift to him at once. "You need to sleep. We walked halfway to the moon today. Let's take you to bed."</p><p>Nicolò watches him, quietly uncomprehending, but stands up as Yusuf gestures. Yusuf blows the candles out, leaving just one beside the bed, then beckons Nicolò over.</p><p>"Here," he says, and he guides Nicolò to sit down on the straw mattress, hoping he gets the picture. The candlelight has swollen his pupils; his gaze rests with nervous reservation on Yusuf's face, trying to work something out. "Settle down and sleep, mm? Lie down."</p><p>Yusuf gestures.</p><p>"Get comfortable," he says.</p><p>Nicolò shifts uncertainly, shuffling back across the mattress, and lays himself down. His eyes remain on Yusuf.</p><p>"There," Yusuf says, smiling. He reaches out and sweeps a hand over Nicolò's forehead, just as he would soothe a nervous child, brushing back his soft brown hair. Nicolò's gaze flickers. "There's nothing to worry about. You can sleep here, and we'll be fine until the morning. I'll just take this, okay?"</p><p>Yusuf leans over, slowly taking one of the woven blankets from the pile at the end of the mattress. He keeps every movement easy, letting Nicolò see what he's doing.</p><p>"And I'll be just here," he says, laying it down upon the floor. He spreads it out with care. "You can wake me if you need me, okay? You'll have to give me a kick. I'm a heavy sleeper."</p><p>Understanding seems to dawn. Nicolò sits up, reaches out a hand, and begins some heartfelt protest. As Yusuf looks towards him, the small stream of foreign language dries awkwardly into silence.</p><p>"What's wrong?" Yusuf asks, watching him.</p><p>Nicolò pauses. The candlelight stirs across his face, shading the gentle hollows, catching in the shapes around his mouth.</p><p>He then shifts back across the mattress, tucking himself closer to the wall. He rests his head down, still gazing up at Yusuf, and says nothing.</p><p>Yusuf's heart gives a quiet kick.</p><p>"Are you sure?" he asks. Nicolò seems to nod, understanding the tone if not the words. "There won't be much space. It's..." Yusuf tries to gesture. "Are you <em> sure?" </em></p><p>The faint smile reappears—the one which stalls Yusuf's breath, just toying at the corner of Nicolò's mouth. Nicolò murmurs something in his own language. The soft burble lilts and purrs with a richness like dark soil, then warms with almost mischievous humour at the end, his eyes bright, a knowing and affectionate look.</p><p>Yusuf takes a second simply to breathe, wishing he'd understood even a tenth of those words.</p><p>"I don't know what that was," he says, "but I'm going to agree with you completely."</p><p>The small smile softens. <em> "Coricare." </em></p><p>Gathering his blanket from the floor, Yusuf gets into bed. </p><p>They both shuffle until they're comfortable, draped in separate blankets, inches apart. When the settling down is over, they eye each other with faint amusement, united in the pleasant strangeness of this moment.</p><p>The quiet hugs around them, soft and warm.</p><p>"I don't even know where we'll go in the morning," Yusuf says. His heart pounds in the silence. "Move to another inn, maybe. But after that..."</p><p>Nicolò listens to him in perfect peace, drinking in the words he can't possibly understand. He glances down to watch Yusuf's mouth shape them as he speaks, as if he's simply enjoying the sounds.</p><p>"I don't know what this is," Yusuf says. His throat thickens. "I was meant to find you on that battlefield. You were meant to find me. Now you're looking at me like you've known me all your life. That's all I know."</p><p>Nicolò's little smile reappears. He murmurs something; the words seem so close, yet their meaning so out of reach.</p><p>Yusuf draws a slow breath.</p><p>"What are you saying?" he asks, his heart heaving out of rhythm. The small smile only grows. "Why's it making you smile?"</p><p>A moment's silence lingers, Yusuf's question unheard and unanswered. Softness settles over Nicolò's face.</p><p><em> "Buonanotte, </em> Yusuf," he says. <em> "La ringrazio tanto." </em></p><p>Yusuf inhales, hoping he heard that right. <em> "Tisbah ala khair, </em> Nicolò."</p><p>Falling to sleep together is easier than dying. There's only one part that Yusuf misses: feeling Nicolò holding onto him, breathing against his neck.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>For most of his life, Nicolò has been a poor sleeper. He tends to wake at odd hours over nothing, and can never resettle once his eyes have opened. Back home in Genoa, he would sometimes leave his bed and walk his thoughts for miles through the empty streets, weary and restless for something he could never quite name.</p><p>But tonight he sleeps deeply, right through until the morning.</p><p>Waking up is less the strike of a flint and more a steady drifting to the shore, floating for some time between scattered dreams and reality. When he finally becomes aware of his own consciousness, his first thought of the day is how heavy and warm he feels, comfortable down to the bone. </p><p>It's enough to make him smile. This sort of rest doesn't come often; it's a blessing when it does. He stirs, stretching a little just to enjoy the warmth of the blanket and the comfort of the mattress underneath him.</p><p>The arm wrapped around his middle tightens sleepily, drawing him close. </p><p>Nicolò's heart leaps up into his throat. In an instant, he realises what has left him feeling so warm and so secure as he sleeps. Yusuf has curled around him in the night, pressed up against his back and holding onto him the way a young child might cradle a cherished pet. There's protectiveness in the wrap of Yusuf's arm. They're nestled close and tight enough for Nicolò to feel only light clothing in between them, one blanket now shared. They fit together like they've done this every night of their lives: Yusuf's knees tucked against the back of Nicolò's, Yusuf's other arm beneath Nicolò's head for a pillow, Yusuf's face settled somewhere at the nape of Nicolò's neck.</p><p>Nicolò can feel his every breath, deep and slow with sleep.</p><p>Swallowing, Nicolò lies still and attempts to think. He needs to undo this particular knot before Yusuf wakes up, which could be at any moment. He doesn't want Yusuf to be embarrassed. This is a harmless accident, after all. Nicolò has shared many tents with many men during his life. Yusuf isn't the first person whose body has gone seeking some source of comfort and warmth during the night, and been glad to find Nicolò's.</p><p>To his distress, Nicolò will admit that some of them have been welcome to remain after waking. </p><p>It's a thought he can't allow himself to have right now. He came to the Holy Land with some hope of forgiveness for all those past mistakes—stolen nights of strong jaws and rasping stubble, broad hands upon his body, restless gasps in the darkness. Yesterday, providence retrieved him from the very arms of death several times. The last thing he should be doing is allowing these urges back into his heart.</p><p>Not least because Yusuf would be appalled. </p><p>What happens in the night, quietly and secretly, between certain young men from noble families in Genoa almost certainly does not happen between Saracen warriors. It's far better to untangle this situation now, before distress can be created where none needs to be.</p><p>For a while, Nicolò considers trying a large and expansive stretching yawn, hoping to dislodge Yusuf's arms then roll free. Yusuf seems like a heavy sleeper. With luck, it might not even wake him.</p><p>
  <em> But will it work? </em>
</p><p>Nicolò doesn't know if he dares to take the risk. This isn't simply a stray arm laid over him by accident in the night. Yusuf is gathered tight around his back like a shell, his arm anchored intimately around Nicolò's waist with one hand splayed out across his heart. It would take a wildly athletic yawn to dislodge him. From what Nicolò can feel, Yusuf might even just tighten his hold and sleep on.</p><p>After a few more minutes of quiet panic, Nicolò begins to wonder if that might be the solution. </p><p>If he lies here quietly, feigning sleep, Yusuf will at some point wake up and let go of his own accord. So long as he thinks Nicolò remains unaware of what happened, there won't be any need for embarrassment. It's a simple remedy, one which requires no action except to rest here and wait.</p><p>In the absence of a better plan, Nicolò pulls in a breath and shuts his eyes.</p><p>Yusuf sleeps for perhaps another hour or so. Nicolò finds himself drifting back into a haze of light dreams, his thoughts blurry and shapeless as he rests. At one point Yusuf stirs, inhaling with a slow shiver, and Nicolò thinks for a moment this is it—but Yusuf simply tightens his hold, nuzzles into the back of Nicolò's neck, and apparently returns to sleep.</p><p>Nicolò isn't certain of the actual moment when he wakes up. Nothing seems to mark it. There simply comes a point when Yusuf cautiously lifts his hand from Nicolò's chest, then slips the arm from around his waist without a sound, taking pains to keep every movement light and slow. Nicolò lies still and at ease, pretending to be deeply asleep; detachment goes as perfectly as planned.</p><p>For a few minutes, Yusuf remains motionlessly beside Nicolò in bed—doing what, Nicolò doesn't know. He can only imagine that Yusuf is thinking, collecting his thoughts. What about remains a mystery. Yusuf finally gets out of bed, taking care not to wake Nicolò, and crosses the room. There comes the quiet trickling of water from the jug. </p><p>Nicolò listens dimly as he washes, wondering if he should stage his own awakening soon. In the end, he's glad that he waits. A stretch of lengthy silence prompts him to steal a quiet glance, just checking that Yusuf is alright. </p><p>Yusuf kneels in the centre of the room, bowed so low that his forehead rests against the ground. He's motionless, soundless, and Nicolò recognises instantly the look of a man in the presence of his god.</p><p>It's a humbling and awakening moment, unsettling in a way which doesn't frighten Nicolò. He heard so many things about the ungodly practices of the Saracens. He just can't recognise those things in Yusuf. It twists his stomach to think he might once have tried to do so.</p><p>A few short hours together, one night curled up asleep, and their differences seem so fleeting.</p><p>Nicolò has prayed that way himself before the altar of San Siro. He's laid his forehead down upon those dusty stone flags many times, closed his eyes and tried to listen with all his heart for some sense of what the Almighty, the creator of all things, could ever want in reparation from a sinner. The answer seemed so simple, once. Reclaim the Holy Land. <em> Deus vult, </em> Nicolò was told. <em> It is the will of God. </em>He believed and he obeyed.</p><p>It's changed so little. Christ's soldiers crossed the sea to retrieve Jerusalem from the bloodstained hands of pagans, and upon arriving there, spilled more blood through the streets than those stones could ever possibly have seen. Four cities have now fallen, countless towns and thousands of men.</p><p>Out of thousands, God has chosen two to rise again.</p><p>Whatever binds Nicolò to Yusuf is more important to God than war, more meaningful than the victories of armies and the broken walls of cities. God's plans are being put into motion, right here in this quiet backroom of a roadside inn. Nicolò now shares more with Yusuf than he ever shared with any mortal person.</p><p>His throat tightens, overwhelmed by the thought.</p><p>He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and tries to pray.</p><p>Somewhere in the middle of his prayers, he catches the sound of the door quietly opening. He hears it open again some time later as Yusuf returns, and guides himself with a breath towards conclusion. A quiet noise nearby finally lifts his heavy eyelids. The world reappears, hazy and soft.</p><p>Yusuf kneels down beside the mattress. He murmurs some gentle greeting, his eyes bright, and puts into Nicolò's hands a cup of fragrant tea. Mint leaves swirl across its surface.</p><p>Nicolò takes it, his heart thumping softly. Something about Yusuf's face just rises a bubbling sensation in him, one he's never experienced before. It makes him feel strangely young.</p><p>"Thank you," he says, trying to show it with his eyes. "It's kind of you."</p><p>Yusuf's smile grows. He gives a soft huff, then says something with a grin that Nicolò can't even begin to decipher. It goes on for a little while, and there's a genial shrug halfway through, then fades into a happy silence, not at all uncomfortable.</p><p>"You know you're wasting all those words on me?" Nicolò asks, trying not to smile. He doesn't manage it. A huff breaks from him, embarrassed; Yusuf's eyes shine. "It sounded nice, whatever it was. I hope it's... I hope you're saying good things. You seem like you are."</p><p>Yusuf murmurs something, still grinning. His voice curls like smoke woven into sound. His eyes flash. He's teasing.</p><p>Though Nicolò's mind doesn't understand, his heart seems to. It feels as if his chest wants to swell to twice its size, grow and grow and grow until it holds the whole world inside it.</p><p>He looks down into his tea, hoping to heaven he isn't blushing, and tries another bashful smile.</p><p>"It's a shame you don't speak my language," he says. "Do you... know any Frankish? Or... <em> Latine loqueris?" </em></p><p>Yusuf simply watches him speak, contentedly clueless. </p><p>"Perhaps for the best," Nicolò concedes, half-amused. "I learned it as a boy. My father insisted. Greek, as well. Most of both now long forgotten..." He takes a sip of tea. <em> "Xereis na milas Ellinika?" </em>he asks, expecting very little.</p><p>Yusuf's expression drops.</p><p>"You speak Greek," he says.</p><p>Nicolò stiffens. His memory strains for the right words, his heart pounding. </p><p>"I... speak slightly Greek," he says at last, staring into Yusuf's eyes. His mind skips. He corrects himself in haste, inhaling. "A little. I speak a little Greek. Do <em> you </em> speak Greek?"</p><p>The fast, happy stream that leaves Yusuf with a grin overwhelms Nicolò in seconds.</p><p>"Slow," he begs, "please. My Greek is, ah... <em> che palle. </em> Old. My Greek is old and broken."</p><p>Yusuf calms himself, now visibly on the brink of laughter. He sounds each word out with care, letting Nicolò pick through them and fill in gaps as they go, piecing together the sounds he only half-remembers.</p><p>"My father traded east out of the Maghreb," Yusuf says. "I sailed with him as a boy."</p><p>
  <em> Oddio.  </em>
</p><p>"Your... your voice is..." Nicolò draws a breath, trying to get a hold of himself. "It's good to hear you. To... talk for you. <em> With </em> you. To talk with you."</p><p>Yusuf simply gazes at him for a moment, apparently overwhelmed. His mouth forms something, words he only half-dares to say. He swallows and releases them with a breath.</p><p>"I'm sorry I hurt you."</p><p>Nicolò's insides tighten. "I hurt you, too. It... it is alright. We both are sorry."</p><p>Yusuf hesitates, reading his eyes. "We can't die."</p><p>Quietly gripping his tea, Nicolò looks down.</p><p>"We die and we live," he mumbles. "We are..." The word stirs in the depths of his memory. <em> "Athánatos. Immortale. </em>I do not understand."</p><p>Yusuf shifts forwards gently, resting a hand on Nicolò's shoulder.</p><p>"We will understand in time," he says. "Maybe a long time, maybe a little time. For now..."</p><p>He shrugs.</p><p>"We're alive," he says. "It's enough."</p><p>Nicolò's pulse quickens. He nods, lowering his gaze, and for a few moments they simply sit together in the quiet. Yusuf brushes his thumb in reassurance against Nicolò's shoulder.</p><p>"Do you have a family?" he asks at last. "A wife? Children?"</p><p>Nicolò nearly laughs. He drinks tea instead, exhaling with a shiver.</p><p>"No," he says. He doesn't possess even half the words he would need to explain. He was a quiet and reserved child, the fifth of five sons and often overlooked, who has now become a spiritual adult attached only to books and to God. His father has never been in any haste to secure a bride for him, much to his relief.</p><p>Being unable to share it is frustrating. He wants Yusuf to know.</p><p>"No, I... I have no wife," he says. He coughs a little. "You have family?"</p><p>"No," Yusuf replies. Nicolò's heart misses a beat. "Many brothers, many sisters. They have children. But I'm a soldier."</p><p>Nicolò's smile sneaks free without his permission.</p><p>"I know this life," he says.</p><p>Yusuf likes it. His eyes dance, as dark and bright as the night sky full of stars. </p><p>"Something we share," he says.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. One in Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>A moment of happiness,<br/>you and I sitting on the verandah, <br/>apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.</p>
<p>Jalâl-Ud Din Rûmî, transl. by Coleman Barks with John Moyne<br/>(13th century CE)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The day passes in peace: sleep, space, simple conversation. Yusuf's Greek was picked up in ports and noisy marketplaces, and more often than not secondhand. Nicolò's seems to have arisen from the dusty shelves of a library. He's cautious with it and clumsy, often preferring to listen rather than speak. He communicates as much in careful gestures and glances as he does in words.</p>
<p>Exchanging their thoughts is a marvel all the same.</p>
<p>Late afternoon, as the sun begins to sink, Yusuf finds him near the stables towards the back of the inn. He's sitting just out of sight upon a large rock, looking out across the sands with his cloak drawn partially over his head, shielding his Frankish features from view.</p>
<p>As Yusuf approaches, scuffing small stones underfoot, Nicolò's back seems to tense.</p>
<p>"It's me," Yusuf says in Greek, weaving reassurance through his voice. "Just looking for you."</p>
<p>Nicolò inclines his head over one shoulder, eyeing Yusuf with quiet humour. </p>
<p>"You found me," he murmurs.</p>
<p><em> Mash Allah. </em>Helpless, Yusuf smiles. </p>
<p>"Now you count to a hundred," he says, strolling over to Nicolò on the rock, "and I hide?"</p>
<p>It takes Nicolò a second to understand. When he does, his green eyes glitter in the sun. </p>
<p>"Like we are children?" he checks.</p>
<p>Yusuf tries not to grin. "We're old children."</p>
<p>Nicolò huffs.</p>
<p>"Will be difficult," he remarks. He turns his gaze towards the unending ocean of sand, and gives a nod. "Not many place to hide..."</p>
<p>He pauses, trying to fit something else into words, then realises Yusuf is still standing beside him. He shifts over on the rock, making room.</p>
<p>"It's alright," Yusuf murmurs. "You don't need to."</p>
<p>"No," Nicolò mumbles in reply. "Please, you can sit..."</p>
<p>Obediently, Yusuf settles down beside him. They look out together towards the horizon, side by side before the sinking sun, and a comfortable quiet wraps around them.</p>
<p>It's Nicolò who finally breaks it.</p>
<p>"I keep thinking was maybe a dream."</p>
<p>Yusuf huffs. He's thought it too, several times. Only Nicolò's quiet presence convinces him it was real. They woke up together this morning, curled as close and safe as two kittens in a basket. Yusuf was so relieved to find Nicolò still here with him that for nearly twenty minutes he didn't let Nicolò go. He just laid there in the silence, guilty for it but glad. It was a miracle Nicolò didn't wake up.</p>
<p>"It wasn't a dream," he says quietly. "I saw what you saw. I remember it all."</p>
<p>Nicolò draws in a breath. "Why is this happen to us?"</p>
<p>Shrugging, Yusuf shakes his head. </p>
<p>"I don't know any better than you," he says. "It must be happening for a reason, but..."</p>
<p>Nicolò looks as if he dearly wants to believe it. He says nothing, struggling, then something tightens in his face. He drops his gaze with distress to the ground.</p>
<p>Yusuf reaches out before he can stop himself.</p>
<p>"Nicolò," he says, placing his hand on Nicolò's arm. "Nicolò, we're alive. We shouldn't be. That means something."</p>
<p>"It's... difficult to believe," Nicolò says, his voice faint. "I do not understand."</p>
<p>"Is it our place to understand?" Yusuf asks. "Or should we just accept?"</p>
<p>Nicolò hesitates, visibly disarmed.</p>
<p>Gently, Yusuf moves his hand from Nicolò's arm to his back.</p>
<p>"God says that you're special," he says, rubbing. "Who are you to question it? It's fine if we don't understand right now. Let's not understand together."</p>
<p>The tiniest smile flickers across Nicolò's mouth.</p>
<p>"You are very reassuring," he murmurs. "Very kind." He lifts his gaze to Yusuf's face, his eyes soft and green in the deep golden glow of the sun. "I am glad you are here, Yusuf."</p>
<p>Yusuf's heart squeezes. The glance of those eyes will always kill him just a little. It feels like they see deeper into him than anyone else ever sees; their quiet sweep sends a thrill beneath every inch of his skin.</p>
<p>They make him feel brave.</p>
<p>"I heard a lot about your people," he admits. Quiet worry flitters through Nicolò's expression. "A lot of things that told me I'd never want to meet one of you." </p>
<p>Nicolò glances at Yusuf's mouth. </p>
<p>"I hear things too," he murmurs. "But... they are untrue, I think. You are a good man. You have a good heart."</p>
<p>"Mm." Yusuf tries a smile. "You seem okay, anyway."</p>
<p>Nicolò's gaze brightens, visibly fighting back a smile of his own. "Even though I kill you?"</p>
<p>"I killed you first," Yusuf points out, lifting an eyebrow at him.</p>
<p>Colour spreads across Nicolò's cheeks. He searches Yusuf's face for a moment, his pupils big and dark, then swallows just a little.</p>
<p>"Where will you go now?" he asks.</p>
<p>Yusuf draws a deep breath, glancing down towards his boots. He's unprepared for the question. He's been keeping it towards the back of his mind all day, ignoring it whenever it starts to creep forwards. In ordinary circumstances, he might have travelled to Cairo and from there journeyed home to his family. </p>
<p>But things are more complicated now.</p>
<p>"I don't know," he says at last. "I haven't thought about it yet." He lifts his eyes to Nicolò's face. "Will you go back to—?" he asks, trying to sound as if the answer means nothing to him.</p>
<p>Nicolò takes a long time to reply.</p>
<p>"I think I should not be here," he mumbles. He pulls quietly at the fabric of his sleeve. "In this place. I think is now..." He fills his lungs, searching for the word. "Wrong, that I am here."</p>
<p>After another painful pause, he looks cautiously up at Yusuf.</p>
<p>"Everything is changed," he says.</p>
<p>Yusuf understands.</p>
<p>"Your family, then?" he says, holding Nicolò's gaze. He reminds himself to keep his Greek slow and steady. "Will you go home?"</p>
<p>Nicolò wrestles with the answer for a moment, uncomfortable. </p>
<p>"I do not know how to say," he murmurs at last. "I... have older brothers, and they are successful. And I am not so important. I am... spare."</p>
<p>Yusuf's heart beats hard, thumping against the front wall of his chest.</p>
<p>"So you're not in a hurry to go home," he says. Nicolò searches his eyes, uncomprehending. "You've... got time. You're free. You can just..." He shrugs.</p>
<p>Nicolò seems to understand. "I have... nowhere to go."</p>
<p>"Nowhere to go," Yusuf says, smiling. "Like me."</p>
<p>Nicolò nods, carefully following the thread of discussion.</p>
<p>"Sometimes I take work in Cairo," Yusuf says. "There's lots of work, lots of money there. Mercenary work, you know? Sell your sword. Or I hear there's work in Malta. From there, you could... if you <em> wanted </em> to go home, take a ship north... it would be easy."</p>
<p>Nicolò quietly wets between his lips. </p>
<p>"So... I will stay with you?" he check. "We will find work?"</p>
<p>Breathing in, Yusuf tells himself to be brave. "In Cairo. Or in Malta."</p>
<p>Nicolò's gaze softens. "I have never been."</p>
<p>"I'll show you," Yusuf says, offering another smile. "We'll travel together. Then in Cairo we can work, or you can go home... you don't need to decide now. You can think about it on the road."</p>
<p>He can't resist the urge to tease.</p>
<p>"You could make good money, you know?" he says. "You're a good fighter. Strong. Nobody's ever killed me before."</p>
<p>Nicolò flushes, torn between embarrassment and amusement. He looks away as he attempts to smother a smile. "I'm sorry I kill you."</p>
<p>"Why? As we've established, I killed you too."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry I... ah, with the <em> pietra. </em>With the rock." Nicolò mimes. </p>
<p>Yusuf lets out a bark of laughter, throwing back his head.</p>
<p>"I <em> let </em> you kill me with the rock," he says. "I was tired. I just wanted to lie down for five minutes."</p>
<p>Nicolò's expression warps into a smirk. "I do not think so."</p>
<p>"Oh, no?"</p>
<p>"No. I think I kill you fairly."</p>
<p><em> "Tsssh! </em> I thought you said you were sorry?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps in fact I am not sorry," Nicolò says, still smirking. As Yusuf turns towards him with a grin, he slips backwards out of reach. "Now what will you do, Yusuf al-Kaysani?"</p>
<p>Yusuf eases after him, slow and steady. "Well, maybe I'll have to kill you with a rock."</p>
<p>Nicolò's eyes flash.</p>
<p>"I like to see you try," he says, turns on his heel, and sprints away.</p>
<p>Grinning ear to ear, Yusuf sets off in pursuit. </p>
<p>A playful and athletic chase leads them in and out of the stables, over a wall and then off across the sand, laughing and shouting like young boys. Though Nicolò is fast and determined, his feet aren't used to the ground shifting beneath him as he runs. He can't keep up any speed on the sand and quickly tires. </p>
<p>Yusuf catches up with him with ease. </p>
<p>He seizes Nicolò around the waist, swings him to the ground and sits on him as he laughs. Once he has Nicolò pinned open by the wrists, he mimes taking up an invisible rock. He brains Nicolò with it, three or four good slams to the skull. Nicolò plays along, taking each one with a feigned <em> "cuh!" </em> of pain, then theatrically dies in the sand, eyes rolled back and tongue lolling out of his mouth.</p>
<p>"There," Yusuf says, grinning and panting, and drops his pretend rock. <em> "Now </em> you're sorry."</p>
<p><em> "Mi dispiace," </em> Nicolò agrees. "I am sorry. You win." </p>
<p>"Good. I'm glad we agree."</p>
<p>"What's your prize?"</p>
<p>Yusuf dismisses his first response, smiling as he wipes the thought clean from his mouth. "Come to Cairo with me. That's my prize."</p>
<p>Nicolò's eyes sparkle in the fading glow of the sun. His face is full of fondness and play, only more striking now he's out of breath. He seems richly and beautifully alive.</p>
<p>"So be it," he murmurs, gazing up at Yusuf. "How far is—?"</p>
<p>Yusuf mulls it through his mind.</p>
<p>"Ten days," he says dimly. "Give or take. The coastal road..." It's the quieter route. Fewer inns and settlements along the way mean fewer bandits, though they might have to sleep under the stars a few times. "It shouldn't take longer than two weeks."</p>
<p>Nicolò's smile curves, content with the answer.</p>
<p>"Not far," he concludes.</p>
<p>Yusuf smiles, too. "Not far."</p>
<p>"We leave in the morning?"</p>
<p>"Mm. We'll get supplies, have a good night's sleep... set out at dawn."</p>
<p>"Alright." Nicolò wriggles a little beneath Yusuf's weight, humour sparking in his eyes. "I learn my lesson, Yusuf. You can release me now."</p>
<p>Yusuf climbs off Nicolò, then offers out an arm to help him up from the sandy ground. As he does, a flicker of guilt stirs through the back of his mind. He should stop creating excuses to touch Nicolò. It's only so long before it becomes obvious what he's doing. Even the wrap of Nicolò's fingers around his forearm takes his breath for a moment, and he won't be able to hide that force of feeling forever.</p>
<p>As Nicolò steadies himself, their gazes briefly meet. Yusuf smiles, a smile he hopes is simply friendly, promising that there's nothing to fear from his affection. <em> Enough to know you, </em> he thinks. <em> To have your company. </em></p>
<p>Nicolò smiles in turn—then something glints in his eyes.</p>
<p>He hooks a foot behind Yusuf's right ankle, dumps him into the sand on his backside and takes flight, as fast as a mongoose. He aims a grin over one shoulder as he flees.</p>
<p>Laughing fit to burst, Yusuf gives chase.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The innkeeper sells them blankets and food for the journey, spare clothing and water canteens. While he and Yusuf talk, Nicolò lingers close at hand and watches the other occupants of the inn, quietly moved by the ordinariness of it all. Weary travellers sit slumped with bowls of food, murmuring to each other in the candlelight. Two old men in the corner are gazing in contemplation at a table game Nicolò half-recognises. Who last moved, or when the next move will be taken, he can't even guess. Neither seems in any hurry to progress things. Away from the chatter, a woman hums to her baby as it sleeps, cradling the small bundle of cloth against her shoulder. As she spots him looking, Nicolò offers a faint smile and averts his eyes.</p>
<p>The innkeeper heads into the back to acquire their provisions.</p>
<p>Nicolò shifts closer to Yusuf, leaning close for his ear.</p>
<p>"Yusuf," he murmurs in Greek, reaching for the leather purse attached to his belt. "Here. Let me... my share..."</p>
<p>Yusuf tsssks at him. "It's nothing."</p>
<p>"We travel together," Nicolò protests. "We pay together." He fishes a few coins from inside, reaching for Yusuf's hand. "Take it."</p>
<p>"It's nothing, Nicolò."</p>
<p><em> "Non dire sciocchezze. </em> Take it." </p>
<p>Nicolò presses the coins one by one between Yusuf's tightly closed fingers, ignoring the smirk now growing behind his beard.</p>
<p>"You are stubborn as a mule," Nicolò mutters, trying not to smile as well. "There. Is this enough? Look and see if it is enough."</p>
<p>"I will put it back in your pouch while you sleep," Yusuf tells him in undertones.</p>
<p>Nicolò tuts. "And then I will put it back in yours."</p>
<p>"So be it," Yusuf says. He pockets the coins without counting them, still amused. "What do you want to eat?"</p>
<p>"I, ah... I am happy with what you have." </p>
<p>"Do you want wine?"</p>
<p>Surprised, Nicolò glances into Yusuf's eyes. "I thought that wine is forbidden here."</p>
<p>"It's haram," Yusuf replies, half-smiling. "It's still here."</p>
<p>Nicolò finds his head completely empty for a moment, his words out of reach.</p>
<p>"I heard it is completely... wrong," he says with care, "for people like you."</p>
<p>"And I heard <em> afranj </em> are cross-eyed barbarians who never wash," Yusuf says, dropping him a wink. "Wine is for travellers and people of the dhimma. Do you want any?"</p>
<p>Nicolò flushes. "I am not cross-eyed."</p>
<p>"No," Yusuf agrees. "You're not. Wine?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They eat and drink alone upstairs, then talk until the candles burn low. The wine seems to help with the flow of Nicolò's Greek. Though he makes more mistakes, he's much less worried about making them, simply filling any gaps with small streams of his mother tongue. He laughs more tonight—though Yusuf can't be certain it's because of the wine. It's nice, seeing him relax.</p>
<p>At last, with thoughts of an early start, the decision is made to sleep.</p>
<p>Nicolò lays his head down on the pillow, watching quietly as Yusuf arranges the blanket around his shoulders for him.</p>
<p>"Tell me a story, Yusuf," he murmurs.</p>
<p>Yusuf leans down, blowing out the candle beside the bed. Darkness settles over the room.</p>
<p>As he lies down at Nicolò's side, he says in Arabic,</p>
<p>"Once, there were two men. They fought as enemies in a war—a war where cities fell, but they rose up."</p>
<p>He can't see Nicolò's face in the blackness, only feel his presence close at hand. </p>
<p>It makes it so much easier to speak.</p>
<p>"They thought that Allah wanted them to fight," Yusuf goes on in his mother tongue. "Then they looked into each other's eyes, and they realised Allah had never once told them to fight. Only men had told them. Allah was showing them that wars and kings and empires are nothing. Children, squabbling in the street."</p>
<p>Nicolò listens without a sound.</p>
<p>"The way to kill your enemy is to love him," Yusuf murmurs. "Then you no longer have an enemy." </p>
<p>He pauses, drawing in a breath.</p>
<p>"You enchant me," he says. "I look at you and I feel... strong. Safe. I watch your eyes shine and all I want is to rest my cheek against yours, hold you in my arms until you tremble. I want to lie awake with you all night. I want to cup your face in both my hands and whisper your name until it's the only word that I remember how to say. And tomorrow, I'll only want it more. What am I going to do, Nicolò?"</p>
<p>Somewhere in the darkness, Nicolò stirs. There comes a gentle pause.</p>
<p>"A pretty story," he murmurs in Greek. "What was it about?"</p>
<p>Yusuf closes his eyes.</p>
<p>"The moon," he replies. "Good night."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yusuf rarely dreams. This one hits him like cold water, short but so vivid that he could draw every detail of it: two women on the back of one horse, flying with the speed of the wind along a mountain path. They dance beside a great fire together, laughing as they circle the flames; they sleep within a deep bed of animal furs, so tightly entwined that every single part of their bodies is in contact. Yusuf feels the force of their love for each other as if it's his own, searing and endless, a love that conquers everything in its path.</p>
<p>The intensity of the feeling knocks him from his sleep. </p>
<p>As he twitches awake, his arms tighten in instinct—gathering Nicolò's body close.</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh—  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh, no, not again...  </em>
</p>
<p>He purposely turned his back on Nicolò to sleep, then tucked his blanket tight around himself in hope of avoiding a repeat of this morning.</p>
<p>This time, it's actually worse.</p>
<p>He's somehow managed to nestle himself underneath Nicolò's chin. He has an arm secured around Nicolò's waist beneath the blankets, and Nicolò's arms are wrapped around him in turn, a loose and gentle hold. Nicolò is deeply asleep. His breath comes evenly and slowly against the top of Yusuf's head, blissfully unaware of what's happening.</p>
<p>
  <em> Okay. </em>
</p>
<p>Yusuf takes a few moments to think. <em> This is fine, </em> he tells himself, ignoring the pounding of his heart. <em> This isn't a problem. </em> If he slips his arm free from around Nicolò's waist, pulls back a little and just rolls over, it should be alright. It's the middle of the night. Nicolò won't remember.</p>
<p>Yusuf takes a careful breath, lifts his hand from Nicolò's back, and starts to let him go.</p>
<p>Nicolò stirs. Yusuf freezes, praying he's not about to wake up. With an indistinct mumble in his own language, Nicolò gathers Yusuf close again and strokes a hand up into his curls.</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh, no—  </em>
</p>
<p>Helpless, Yusuf stays still as Nicolò pets him in his sleep, trying to soothe him. The half-formed and unfamiliar words he murmurs are lost on Yusuf, except for one phrase that he hears several times.</p>
<p><em> "Sono qui," </em> Nicolò tells him, soft and reassuring. He cradles the back of Yusuf's head as he says it, and it sounds so much like a promise. <em> "Va tutto bene... lo sono qui..." </em></p>
<p>Yusuf's stomach knots. <em> Who are you dreaming about? </em>he thinks in distress, then reminds himself it's none of his business. Nicolò can dream of whatever—and whoever—he wants.</p>
<p>Swallowing, Yusuf lays still and tries to come up with a better plan. It's difficult to concentrate; the petting of his hair is to die for. He's always been weak to having his hair touched. Something about the slow and tender brushes of Nicolò's fingertips seems to slip through skin and bone and stroke his soul instead, blurring his every worry into nothing.</p>
<p><em> Maybe just a minute more, </em>he thinks, overwhelmed. </p>
<p>He breathes out, relaxing into Nicolò's warmth. </p>
<p>
  <em> Just a minute, just to... </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's light when Yusuf wakes up. </p>
<p>He stirs at once, trying to let go of Nicolò, but finds his arms already empty. The mattress beside him is empty, too. The blankets feel cool to the touch. He sits up in confusion, rubbing a hand across his eyes, and asks the silent room.</p>
<p>"Nicolò?" </p>
<p>There comes the sound of water being wrung into a bowl. </p>
<p>"Did I wake you?" Nicolò murmurs.</p>
<p>The relief knocks Yusuf out of his senses for a moment. He doesn't know what he expected. He doesn't know why it frightens him so much, the thought that he'd suddenly be by himself again. He's lived long years of his life in his own company, following his instincts across the ocean and over mountains, searching for a place that feels like it wants him to stay. Alone has never unsettled him before.</p>
<p>"No," he says, taking a breath. "No, I just... wondered where you..." He squints across the half-lit room, blinking to try and clear the blur from his eyes. "What are you doing?"</p>
<p>Nicolò is sitting at the corner table, his body angled away from Yusuf's gaze. He seems to be soaking the top of his chest with a cloth and the last of yesterday evening's water.</p>
<p>"Washing," he says, not looking towards the bed. "I was too hot."</p>
<p>A faint prickle of intuition crosses the back of Yusuf's neck. Nicolò seems very keen to be up and doing something, as if the last place he thinks that he should be is in the bed. Though he's calm, he strikes Yusuf as almost too calm—as if he were very recently flustered, and this is the forceful state of peace for which he's swapped it.</p>
<p><em> Was I holding you? </em> Yusuf's pulse quickens with concern. <em> Touching you? </em></p>
<p>"Did you... sleep okay?" he asks.</p>
<p>Nicolò hums in ascent. "Yes, thank you."</p>
<p>"I thought in the night you were dreaming, maybe. You seemed kind of restless."</p>
<p>Nicolò seems to hesitate, his hand faltering as he wets the cloth again. </p>
<p>"I don't remember," he says.</p>
<p>Yusuf's chest tightens. <em> You know who you were dreaming about, </em> he thinks. Distressed jealousy bubbles through his soul. <em> Someone you love. A woman you miss. Woke up aching for her. </em></p>
<p>"So long as you're okay," Yusuf says, unable to make it sound as breezy as he hoped. He lies back down, telling himself to let this go. He'll end up hurt.</p>
<p>Nicolò looks around from the table. He takes a moment to find the words, something nameless in his face as he watches Yusuf from across the room. "How did you sleep?"</p>
<p><em> You were holding me, </em> Yusuf thinks <em> . It was perfect.  </em></p>
<p>"It was fine," he says, lifting both hands to rub his eyes. "I think I'm ready for the road."</p>
<p>"Yes, I... I think so, too." Nicolò seems to pause again. "Yusuf?"</p>
<p>Yusuf's heart perks, a hunting dog hearing its master's call. He keeps his fingers over his eyes and breathes in. "Yes, Nicolò?"</p>
<p>The silence goes on for a moment too long.</p>
<p>"Shall I ask for more water?" Nicolò says. He adds, "For you to pray."</p>
<p>It's a kind gesture, one Yusuf never expected to receive from a Frank. <em> How things change, </em>he reflects.</p>
<p>"Sure," he murmurs. "Thanks. If you just give them the jug, they'll understand."</p>
<p>"Alright." Nicolò pushes back his chair, standing quietly. He seems to brush down the front of his clothing. "How do I say thank you in your language?"</p>
<p>Yusuf's mouth lifts at one edge. <em> "Shoukran jazilan." </em></p>
<p>
  <em> "Shouk... ran..." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> "Jazilan. Shouk-ran ja-zi-lan." </em>
</p>
<p><em> "Shoukran jazilan," </em> Nicolò mumbles. "Thank you. I'll..." He gestures towards the door.</p>
<p>Quietly, Yusuf nods.</p>
<p>As he watches the door close, he wonders if the journey to Cairo will seem longer or shorter than it usually does.</p>
<p>He has a feeling it will somehow be both.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. What Love Will Do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>If I had fallen by your side<br/>I would have died happy <br/>for there is nothing greater <br/>than what love will do, <br/>and living after you <br/>would mean continual dying <br/>since half a soul <br/>is not enough to live.</p>
<p>Peter Abelard, <em> David's Lament for Jonathan </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> (11th - 12th century CE) </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eight hours closer to Cairo, Nicolò trudges wearily off the road. He picks the softest spot of sand he can see, flops down onto it and rolls over, then simply lies on his back beneath the sun, catching his breath as he pants.</p>
<p>After a moment or so, a shadow settles across his face. </p>
<p>He opens one of his eyes, squinting, and finds Yusuf looking down at him in amusement.</p>
<p>"We should have stopped at that inn we passed," Yusuf remarks. "The one two hours ago."</p>
<p>Too tired for Greek, Nicolò simply huffs. He closes his eyes and tips his head back into the sand, sweating quietly through his clothes.</p>
<p>"It's hot today," Yusuf says. There comes the quiet pop of a stopper being tugged from a water bottle, then a nudge against the bottom of Nicolò's foot. "Here," Yusuf says, holding the bottle out. "You need to drink."</p>
<p>Tilting the bottle neck against his mouth, Nicolò discovers it isn't water. The taste of wine makes him groan.</p>
<p><em> "Santa Maria," </em> he breathes, and drinks. <em> "Madre di Dio."  </em></p>
<p>It earns him a laugh. </p>
<p>"I thought you'd want it," Yusuf says, smiling.</p>
<p>"You are kind," Nicolò says. "Very kind. Thank you."</p>
<p>Yusuf hauls his heavy pack over his head, lays it in the sand and settles down beside Nicolò, lying back to face the sun with him.</p>
<p>"We've made good progress," he says. "More than I thought we would."</p>
<p>Glad to hear it, Nicolò dries the corners of his mouth on his sleeve. "I miss my horse."</p>
<p>"Jerusalem?" Yusuf checks.</p>
<p>"Jerusalem. With arrows. She was... very useful, for carry things."</p>
<p>"Ahh." Yusuf taps gently against the bottom of the canteen. "Drink some more, please."</p>
<p>Obediently Nicolò drinks, closing his eyes as the wine slides down his throat.</p>
<p>"It'll be cold when we lose the sun," Yusuf remarks dimly, eyeing the cloudless sky. "There's no cover."</p>
<p>Nicolò huffs against the bottle neck. "Good."</p>
<p>It prompts a sideways smile. "Colder than you'll want."</p>
<p>"No, no. I like cold. Cold is good."</p>
<p>"Yeah? Tell me that in a few hours." Yusuf props himself up on one arm, pulling the stopper from his own canteen with his teeth. As he dries his mouth, he says, "We'll find somewhere to make camp, then build a fire."</p>
<p>The muscles in Nicolò's shoulders protest at once. "Five minutes first?" he begs.</p>
<p>Yusuf drinks again.</p>
<p>"Five minutes first," he agrees.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They use their spare cloaks to form a tent against an old acacia tree, some distance from the road. As Nicolò keeps watch over their fire, quietly coaxing it to grow, Yusuf disappears for an hour or two. He returns just before sunset, traipsing wearily across the sand with some rotund brown animal dangling by the feet from his fist. It looks a little like a rabbit, only with small rounded ears. </p>
<p>Whatever it is, it tastes amazing when roasted on a spit.</p>
<p>Sleepy and full, the two of them sit by the fire together and talk late into the night, sharing silly stories from the past. They drift into laughter so often that Nicolò feels almost drunk, though he knows that this wine is too weak to affect him so much. He's intoxicated by the firelight, the company and the stars.</p>
<p>In the afterglow of one of Yusuf's stories, calming together from their laughter, Nicolò's cheek finds its way to Yusuf's shoulder. Even once they've settled, he can't bring himself to move away.</p>
<p>"Peaceful here," he murmurs, closing his eyes. Contentment glows through his chest. "Feels nice."</p>
<p>Yusuf gently turns his face, pressing his chin against Nicolò's head. His beard tickles Nicolò's forehead as he speaks.</p>
<p>"We could be the only two people in the world," he says.</p>
<p>"Mm." Nicolò takes a breath. As he does, he lets Yusuf's scent fill his nose: male sweat, smoke and sand. He smells sublime, like he'd feel warm to hold. It's enough to make Nicolò ache. "You are wonderful company, Yusuf."</p>
<p>Yusuf smiles against his forehead. "So are you."</p>
<p>"A long time, since I can talk like this."</p>
<p>"Mm?"</p>
<p>"You are good listener. Good for talking."</p>
<p>"I like hearing you talk. Still just glad we can." Yusuf seems to hold something back for a moment, as if he's wondering whether he should ask. "Do you miss your home?"</p>
<p>Nicolò thinks about it. He wishes he could give the answer that feels like the good one. <em> Yes. Yes, I miss it very much. </em>But it doesn't feel honest, sitting here with his cheek on Yusuf's shoulder. </p>
<p>"Some of it," he admits, thinking of his books, his mother, the small olive trees she grows on her balcony. She was so proud, the day he left. His breath leaves him slowly at the memory. "Some of it, not so much."</p>
<p>"What like?"</p>
<p>"I, ah... I don't miss my older brothers."</p>
<p>"No?"</p>
<p>"I am sure they don't miss me. Is mutual."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"They are... argumentative. Everything must be a fight. It makes me very tired." Smiling a little, Nicolò lifts his canteen to his mouth and drinks. "It is never enough just to speak. Have to speak louder than all the rest, or not be heard at all."</p>
<p>Yusuf huffs, half amused. "How many brothers?"</p>
<p>"Four. Feels like ten."</p>
<p>"And you're the youngest?"</p>
<p>"Mhm." Nicolò drinks again, dabbing wine from the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes, I... I think I only come here because none of my brothers ever came here. Everything else I do, they have already done. Good or bad. My father was pleased when I told him I decide to fight for God in the Holy Land. He was so happy. And so it felt like the right decision."</p>
<p>Yusuf hums, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.</p>
<p>"Your Greek's getting better," he says.</p>
<p>Nicolò's stomach gives a tug. Another long day of speaking it has definitely helped. He's picking up new phrases from Yusuf, and the words seem to lie far more readily in reach when he wants them.</p>
<p>"You are a good teacher," he says. He lifts his head at last from Yusuf's shoulder, turning to look at him in the firelight. "You give me lots of practice."</p>
<p>Yusuf smiles. He's gazing at Nicolò as if he wants to remember every detail of his face, enjoying every single word he says.</p>
<p>"Why don't you get a wife?" he asks. "You could have your own family. Move away and make a home somewhere."</p>
<p>Nicolò's laugh sounds nervous to his own ears. There's far too much breath in it, and not nearly enough real humour. </p>
<p>"I don't think would suit me," he says at last, flushing. "I would feel very sorry for my wife."</p>
<p>Yusuf's eyes glitter. "Haven't found the right woman?"</p>
<p>
  <em> Oddio.  </em>
</p>
<p>"No," Nicolò says, glad the fire's orange glow hides the colour in his face. "If I am honest, I never looked for her. I have better things to do." </p>
<p>Yusuf hums.</p>
<p>"Have you looked for the right man?" he asks.</p>
<p>The world, and everything in it, falls still. For a few moments, even the fire seems to make no sound. Its crackle fades to nothing in Nicolò's ears, and only the silence of the desert surrounds them. </p>
<p>Keeping his gaze within the flames, Nicolò pulls in an unsteady breath. His heart restarts with a kick. </p>
<p>Quietly and carefully, he replies.</p>
<p>"I'm not sure what you say to me," he manages, reaching for a stick to stir the base of the fire. "Perhaps I misunderstand."</p>
<p>Yusuf watches him, quite calm. "The world's full of beauty. Beautiful women, beautiful men. Sometimes we prefer our own kind. All just part of the design."</p>
<p>
  <em> We. </em>
</p>
<p>Unable to breathe, Nicolò takes a second to calm the frantic pounding of his pulse.</p>
<p>"This is... forbidden," he mumbles, "where I come from. It is punished."</p>
<p>Yusuf hums. "That must make life difficult."</p>
<p>The heat in Nicolò's face threatens to rupture. Gathering the entirety of his courage, he assumes the most neutral expression he can and looks up into Yusuf's eyes.</p>
<p>"Perhaps," he says, his tone mild, the words even and steady. "But I do not know. I am not like that."</p>
<p>The seconds pass, soundless, as Yusuf studies Nicolò gently. His dark eyes shine in the firelight. The thoughts written in his face are impossible to read, too complex to understand by sight alone. The warmth within his gaze seems knowing and yet soft, his confidence underlaid with indecision.</p>
<p>He lifts a hand.</p>
<p>As he cups Nicolò's face, Nicolò's very soul seems to give way. Warm fingertips curl with tenderness beneath his jaw, and at the lightest suggestion of a pull, Nicolò responds. His body leans forwards in absolute instinct.</p>
<p>Their lips meet in the firelight.</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh, God— </em>
</p>
<p>Their noses nudge, breath stalling with the shock of contact. Nicolò can't resist. He can't hide this a single second longer. As he offers a tentative brush of his lips, Yusuf's chest seems to swell. His lips stroke in return, just as hopeful, and the feeling floods light through Nicolò's entire body. He tries to stay still, tries to control himself and take this slowly—then realises that his arms are already moving to wrap themselves around Yusuf's shoulders. He's in Yusuf's lap before he can stop, sitting himself astride Yusuf's thighs. Yusuf's hands grasp restlessly at his back to pull him closer, gather him in, and their lips open.</p>
<p>The inside of Yusuf's mouth feels divine, molten and smooth and deliciously pliant. Nicolò can't keep himself from dipping inside that softness over and over, drinking it, searching it as Yusuf clings onto him. He rakes his hands through Yusuf's beard to keep him close, burying his fingers in the dark springy curls; Yusuf's ragged breath breaks into a shaky moan against his mouth.</p>
<p>Nicolò's heart almost ruptures. He won't ever forget that sound, not as long as he lives.</p>
<p>
  <em> Yes—oh, God—that's it, show me... </em>
</p>
<p>Making love to Yusuf's mouth, he loses track of Yusuf's hands. Their comfortable, exploratory grasping becomes a pleasurable all-over fuzz, Nicolò's body aching happily to be mapped through his clothes. He only realises the extent of Yusuf's exploration as hands delve beneath the hem of his tunic. Spread fingers and warm palms, textured with grains of sand, glide with longing up Nicolò's bare sides, and Nicolò's gasp of surprise pitches into a whimper. He squirms, kissing Yusuf harder. </p>
<p>Yusuf pants out a restless moan.</p>
<p>"You're beautiful," he whispers in Greek between kisses, stroking Nicolò's chest beneath his tunic. His thumbs rasp across Nicolò's nipples. "You're so beautiful."</p>
<p>Something in Nicolò's blood seems to bloom. He has to stop kissing Yusuf in order just to breathe and bite back his moans, panting a little as he rests their foreheads together.</p>
<p>Yusuf's nose nuzzles at the side of Nicolò's.</p>
<p>"Don't bite down," he begs, sweeping his thumbs over Nicolò's nipples once more. "Please. Please let me hear you."</p>
<p>Helpless, Nicolò lets out all his breath. It's so easy to moan. The low rumble and crackle of the fire softens everything, cloaking his sounds just for Yusuf to hear. Yusuf takes up a slow and gentle circling of his nipples, coaxing and teasing him, whispering in a blend of Greek and unfamiliar language as Nicolò trembles. </p>
<p>They sink back into kissing, panting.</p>
<p>With shaking hands, Yusuf pushes Nicolò's tunic up towards his shoulders, wanting it off. They stop kissing just long enough for Nicolò to wriggle out of it, then toss it clear of the fire and continue, kissing as if it's their wedding night. In the black air, Nicolò's bare skin seems to burn. He's never felt this sensitive to touch, this alive, in all his existence. Yusuf's fingertips keep finding little places on his chest and his back that suddenly seem to brim with almost breathless amounts of sensation, places Nicolò can't even name. Having them stroked and gently tickled sends liquid fire spilling down his spine.</p>
<p>It feels so sublime it starts to leave him feeling exposed, suddenly nervous at the thought that they're visible, even just to the stars.</p>
<p>"Yusuf," he gasps, his heart pounding against his ribs. Yusuf responds to him at once, cradling his face in both hands and murmuring Nicolò's name, searching his face. "I-I'm cold—can we—"</p>
<p>Yusuf's expression floods with protective love.</p>
<p>"Of course," he whispers, gently butting their foreheads together. "Of course, <em> habibi. </em> Let's make you warm."</p>
<p>Safe within the darkness of their tent, naked together beneath the heaviest of their cloaks, Yusuf eases between Nicolò's open thighs. Their hips settle into alignment, nuzzling, and the nudge of Yusuf's fierce excitement against his own makes Nicolò shiver. He lets out a nervous moan, trembling from his very core.</p>
<p>Yusuf catches his mouth, kissing him, as slowly they start to rub.</p>
<p>The pleasure of it burns through Nicolò's entire body. This boyish, gentle rubbing feels soft and safe, their bodies begging each other with every fretful thrust: <em> I want you. I want you, please. I want you so much. </em>Yusuf sets their pace for them, slow and easy so they can kiss, and though the fever rises fast in Nicolò's blood, it's not quite enough to fear boiling over. Yusuf keeps him at a helpless simmer. When Nicolò's breath becomes hard panting, when his hips begin to chase and grind in instinct, Yusuf hums and pins him down and lies still for a little while, whispering to him, letting him cool. </p>
<p>At last, his throat dry after what feels like hours of pouring out his pleasured sounds, Nicolò runs his shaking hands down Yusuf's sides. He wraps his fingers around Yusuf's hips, feeling every firm and slow thrust as they come. </p>
<p>The sensation arches his back off the blanket; fresh heat burns across his face.</p>
<p>"Please," he begs, looking up into Yusuf's eyes, breathless and broken with enjoyment. "Please, I—I-I cannot—"</p>
<p>Sweating, panting, Yusuf shifts. He takes one of Nicolò's hands and moves it in between them, where they need it most. Shuddering, Nicolò wraps them both together and closes the circle with his other hand, working fast and tight, up and down, pulling pleasure through them both from root to tip. He swipes his thumbs through their slick on each upstroke, smudging and blending, then in longing for a little more wetness adds spit to both his palms. </p>
<p>Yusuf's face contorts at the new feeling. He moans, nuzzles into Nicolò's neck and begins to chase, rough thrusts, no more coaxing. Nicolò closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He bites down into his lip and concentrates on the firm rub of Yusuf's cock against his own, the tight flashes of his hands, the weight of Yusuf's body and his scent and the sudden dig of Yusuf's teeth into his neck, marking him, wanting him. Nicolò cries out as his crisis overwhelms him. Waves of unbearable pleasure and aching relief come crashing through his body, over and over and over. He feels himself coming in every inch of his skin, in every part of his soul and in all of his senses, coming in his fingers, his inner thighs, his throat muscles as he moans, coming like he's waited all his life to feel this. His muscles contort, arching him up into the warmth of Yusuf's body, needing him close just to cope. Yusuf's arms drag around him and hold on tight.</p>
<p>As Yusuf pants out his name, wet heat floods Nicolò's hand and over his stomach.</p>
<p>The satisfaction it causes is almost a second climax. Nicolò moans with it, shivering. As his arm muscles tighten in instinct, he discovers that at some point during orgasm he relocated a hand into Yusuf's hair, trying to keep him close.</p>
<p>Shuddering, he strokes through the soft and textured coils.</p>
<p>"You are wonderful," he breathes in Yusuf's ear, overcome. Realising he's fallen into his mother tongue, he swallows and tries to piece together the fractured shards of Greek he still remembers. "You are perfect. Oh, God. Your kiss is..."</p>
<p>Breathing hard, Yusuf lifts his weary head to Nicolò's ear.</p>
<p>"I would bring down every star from the sky," he says, "if you wanted them. I would weave all the sand into fabric for you to wear. I would bring you a handful of snow from the peak of every mountain on this earth."</p>
<p>Nicolò's heart strains against the walls of his chest, demanding to be released at once.</p>
<p>"Yusuf," he whispers, incapable of any other words. He curls his fingers into Yusuf's hair. "Yusuf..."</p>
<p>A shiver runs through Yusuf's body; Nicolò feels it as strongly as if it were his own.</p>
<p>"Are you alright?" Yusuf asks, touching a kiss as soft as a feather to Nicolò's shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"</p>
<p>Helpless, Nicolò grins.</p>
<p>"You didn't hurt me," he murmurs, tipping his head to kiss the shell of Yusuf's ear. His chest suddenly seems too small to contain the sheer size of his happiness. His heart swells with the force of it, shining. He feels like he's aglow. "Did I hurt you? Did I pull your hair, while I—?"</p>
<p>"A little," Yusuf admits, amused.</p>
<p>It's enough to make Nicolò laugh. "I'm so sorry. You're very good at..."</p>
<p>"Don't be sorry. Please don't ever be sorry." Yusuf stirs, nuzzling with longing into Nicolò's neck. "You can pull my hair a thousand times, and I won't mind."</p>
<p>
  <em> Please.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Please let it be true. </em>
</p>
<p>"How did you know?" Nicolò asks, resting back his head for Yusuf to kiss his neck.</p>
<p>"Mm?"</p>
<p>"How did you know I... that you and I are the same?"</p>
<p>Yusuf touches his lips to the curve of Nicolò's jaw, brushing Nicolò's throat with his beard. </p>
<p>A happy shiver spills down through Nicolò's body.</p>
<p>"I didn't know," Yusuf murmurs against his skin. "I just hoped." He settles another tender kiss to Nicolò's pulse, every motion soft and slow. "Is it both for you? Women and men?"</p>
<p>Nicolò has never spoken about this before, not once in his life. </p>
<p>Saying it aloud feels like laying down a heavy burden at last, stepping free.</p>
<p>"Not women," he says, and takes a breath. "Ever since I'm young, I..." He squeezes Yusuf gently, trying to express what he can't quite fit into words: a male body close to his own, strong shoulders and sweat, a low voice rumbling sweetness against his neck. This longing has never wavered, not once. The happiness that comes afterwards has never felt this strong. "I-I like this," he says softly. "This is my way."</p>
<p>Though it feels like an inadequate explanation, Yusuf seems to understand. </p>
<p>"God has willed it," he murmurs, lifting his lips from Nicolò's neck. </p>
<p>As they kiss, Nicolò's pulse skips and reels with utter joy. Though they're a mess of sweat and sex, still sticky with each other, his soul feels clean and his body is at rest. He'd rather lie like this with Yusuf, skin to skin beneath an old cloak in the middle of nowhere, than sleep all year in a bed with silk sheets and feather pillows. He needs this closeness. He never wants to get up.</p>
<p>His fingertips shake as he strokes Yusuf's cheek, their noses nuzzling.</p>
<p>Yusuf's kiss softens. In the space between their lips, he draws a quiet breath.</p>
<p>"Since the beach, Nicolò," he says. "Since I saw you properly, I wanted you."</p>
<p>Nicolò's heart thumps. "Yusuf..."</p>
<p>Yusuf seems to swallow, his gaze almost aching. </p>
<p>"You make my name sound like it belongs in your mouth," he whispers. "How do you do that?"</p>
<p>"Yusuf... I..."</p>
<p>The kiss takes Nicolò's breath. He melts in Yusuf's hold, so happy he could die.</p>
<p>A night breeze steals its way inside their tent, cooling the sweat on their skin. All thought shivers away from Nicolò's mind. It's enough just to exist like this, resting in Yusuf's kiss.</p>
<p>"Don't regret this in the morning," Yusuf begs between their lips. "Please."</p>
<p>Nicolò's heart squeezes. </p>
<p>"How could I?" he whispers. "How could I do that to you?"</p>
<p>"Please, Nicolò—"</p>
<p>"Yusuf, I... <em> died </em>in your arms. Ten times. Fifty times. What we share is..." </p>
<p>Lost for words, Nicolò butts his forehead against Yusuf's. Their eyes close. </p>
<p>"I've only known you for days," Nicolò breathes in his mother tongue, the words pouring from him. He strokes his hands up into Yusuf's hair, his heart beating so fast and so hard that it hurts. "I feel like I've known you all my life. As if we were children together, Yusuf. As if we were always together. All I want is to be near you. I want to walk with you, sleep with you, die with you, and if yours is the only face I see for the rest of my life, then I feel like I'll be happy."</p>
<p>Yusuf's throat muscles work. </p>
<p>"Nicolò," he says. "Please..."</p>
<p>Nicolò's heart takes flame.</p>
<p>"I am made for you," he whispers in Greek. It feels so clumsy, so helpless. He tries to say what matters all the same, staring into Yusuf's eyes, letting his expression say the rest. "In the morning, I will kiss you. A hundred mornings from now, I will kiss you. And you will understand."</p>
<p>His eyes shining, Yusuf nuzzles against Nicolò's cheek.</p>
<p>"Teach me your language," he murmurs. "Please." Their noses stroke and rub. "I want to hear you properly. Talk to you properly."</p>
<p>Smiling, Nicolò cards both hands through his hair.</p>
<p>"Will take time," he warns. He pulls the blanket up around Yusuf's back, holding him close. "Lots of practice."</p>
<p>Yusuf seems to shiver, happiness sparkling in his eyes.</p>
<p>"Good," he says, leaning down for Nicolò's kiss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A pink sun shimmers just above the horizon, spilling molten gold and peach across the sands. The birds have been waiting for the light. Their calls ring clear and sweet through the morning air, greeting each other and the newborn day. Nothing stirs. Nothing is happening just yet.</p>
<p>It is far too early for that.</p>
<p>Yusuf drifts within the calm, not quite conscious. Something lingers at the very back of his mind, something he needs to check as a matter of urgency—but what it is, he can't recall. He's too warm, too content. His bones seem to weigh nearly as much as the earth.</p>
<p>As he stirs, slowly filling his lungs with his first conscious breath of the day, gentle fingers curl at the nape of his neck. A tender kiss is laid between his eyes.</p>
<p>"Yusuf," a voice whispers against his skin.</p>
<p>It feels like being called into existence. Yusuf's hands burn at once, wanting to hold Nicolò and draw him close, prove beyond doubt that it was real. As his fingers flex, he discovers that his longings have already come true. Nicolò's arms are wrapped around him, their legs intertwined beneath the blanket, with as much of their bare skin in contact as possible. They're closer than twins in the womb. They could be a single body, a single soul.</p>
<p>"I'm here," Nicolò whispers, stirring, and settles a soft and soundless kiss on Yusuf's lips. "Everything is alright."</p>
<p>Yusuf's heart pounds with joy. </p>
<p>"Were you watching me sleep?" he asks, a little hoarse.</p>
<p>Nicolò smiles against his lips.</p>
<p>"I think I will make a habit of it," he says. "You are very handsome." </p>
<p>He steals another gentle kiss from Yusuf's mouth, soft and sly. His fingertips sweep over the surface of Yusuf's beard. </p>
<p>"Though I'm glad you are awake," he adds, fanning his toes against the back of Yusuf's knee.</p>
<p><em> I am dead, </em> Yusuf thinks. <em> I have died, and this is heaven. </em></p>
<p>"Nicolò," he manages, his voice a weakened groan. He swallows, trying to find the words. "Nicolò, I..."</p>
<p>Nicolò hums with happiness against his lips. He threads his fingers into Yusuf's beard, coaxing him to return the gentle kisses. Helpless, Yusuf surrenders. There's no language fit to express the force of this feeling; touch is the only way. Nicolò's back feels smooth and satisfying to stroke, his lips soft, his entire body warm and inviting.</p>
<p>He's beautiful.</p>
<p>"How did you sleep?" he asks between kisses, half whisper and half murmur.</p>
<p>Yusuf trails his fingertips between Nicolò's shoulders.</p>
<p>"Perfectly," he says, enjoying the shiver he causes. He follows it with his hand down Nicolò's back. "Better than I usually do outdoors."</p>
<p>Nicolò draws a quiet sigh, stroking the side of his nose against Yusuf's. "Perhaps we find an inn for tonight?"</p>
<p>The pit of Yusuf's stomach aches, imagining it: Nicolò, candlelight and a comfortable bed, clean water to wash each other afterwards. Nothing could ever sound better.</p>
<p>"I think that's a plan," he murmurs. It seems the best time to bring something up, though he dearly wishes he didn't have to. "We, ah... we might have to be careful. Travel as friends. Some places are more tolerant than others, but..."</p>
<p>Nicolò gently kisses his nose.</p>
<p>"It's okay," he whispers, his voice soft. He brushes his thumb against Yusuf's beard, as if he's enjoying its texture. "The same as where I come from. We'll be safe, Yusuf. We will watch over each other."</p>
<p><em> Always. </em> Yusuf's heart thuds, realising how easily the word has risen up into his mouth, ready to be murmured. It feels as natural in this moment as if he's woken up beside Nicolò every morning for ten years. They met days ago, and yet words of love are already stretching at the seams of Yusuf's chest, begging to be let free. <em> Fuck. </em></p>
<p>Exhaling, Yusuf leans in. He settles his lips on Nicolò's, closing his eyes just to cope with the rush of feeling.</p>
<p>Nicolò smiles as they kiss.</p>
<p>"We leave soon?" he asks, softly and fondly between their mouths. As Yusuf growls in quiet protest and pulls him closer, he breaks into a grin. "We leave later?"</p>
<p>"Much later," Yusuf hums. He gathers Nicolò happily on top of him, turning onto his back beneath the blankets. "Cairo isn't going anywhere."</p>
<p>Nicolò's eyes brim with amusement. Settled into place, he catches Yusuf's hands and lifts them up, pinning them either side of Yusuf's head.</p>
<p>Their fingers tangle happily.</p>
<p>"God brings me to you," Nicolò says, looking down into Yusuf's eyes. He tries a smile. "God... wants this for us."</p>
<p>The little pause warms Yusuf's heart.</p>
<p>"God doesn't make mistakes," he says, as he squeezes Nicolò's hands. "Accepting the blessings we're sent is a form of worship."</p>
<p>Nicolò's smile grows. "You think I am a blessing?"</p>
<p>
  <em> What else could you be, habibi?  </em>
</p>
<p>Grinning, Yusuf tugs on Nicolò's hands. </p>
<p>"Come here," he murmurs. "Let me show you."</p>
<p> </p>
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